


With Bones Unbuttoned

by recrudescence



Category: Inception
Genre: Fisting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-10
Updated: 2011-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fuck you," mutters Arthur. And he's got hair in his eyes and a look on his face that would be very close to a pout on anyone less formidable than Arthur happens to be, and then he sighs and shifts a little more against Eames's side and grumbles, "'s too hard doing it by yourself; the angle's all weird."</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Bones Unbuttoned

**Author's Note:**

> So this all happened because of a post [](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com/profile)[**cherrybina**](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com/) made about what kind of music would be most likely to inspire fisting (like you've never thought long and hard about it). [This conversation](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com/206003.html?thread=13952947#t13952947) with [](http://five-ht.livejournal.com/profile)[**five_ht**](http://five-ht.livejournal.com/) resulted and was most inspiring.

It goes on, Eames doesn't know how long, but it feels like forever, sitting there on the rug with his back to the sofa, with Arthur a slim band of heat along his side, and with Arthur's mouth the only thing in the room making a sound. Sounds. Fucking _indecent_ sounds, if he's honest, which is rarely Eames's default state of being. Arthur brings out the worst in him and Eames can't even be annoyed at him for it.

So, okay, yeah, oral fixation, one of Arthur's less professional and more endearing habits, that's all. Nothing unfamiliar, but not normally something he levels at Eames's _hands_ as opposed to other things belonging to Eames.

He clears his throat because if he doesn't say _something_ it seems likely that Arthur could keep at this all night. "Is everything...as it should be? I mean, not that I'm not flattered, but if you're going to devour my entire arm maybe we should discuss it first."

Arthur makes a guttural sound of assent, mouth still pursed tight around Eames's first two fingers, sucking them down to the knuckle. The flat of his tongue is hot and insistent against them, as if he can taste Eames's long-since-eradicated fingerprints if only he tries hard enough. When he finally lets Eames's fingers slide from his mouth, they leave a trail of wetness on his chin. A loosened strand of hair falls over his forehead when he looks up. "You feel nice, 's all."

Arthur doesn't _do_ compliments, not unless he's stoned or drunk or in some state that renders him too addled to absolutely suck at giving them, the way he usually does.

"You're off your face," says Eames, "but thank you." He's leaning in to kiss him, but Arthur's eyes are dark and heavy and still fixated on his hand, which he's now raptly folding into a fist and then drawing back open, again and again.

"I think..." Arthur's whispering, and he's sighing into Eames's mouth, the tip of his tongue a bolt of heat against Eames's lip. "I _want_ ," he corrects himself, voice ragged as his body goes riding up into the pressure of Eames's palm when Eames manages to wrest his hand out of Arthur's grip and slip it down between his spread thighs. "I want to feel _more_."

Then he's cradling Eames's hand in both of his own, thin fingers clasping it into a fist once again, and the "Yeah?" he breathes into Eames's ear might as well be another step on the road to hell. "Will you let me?"

It's either the spliff or the sheer unexpectedness that renders Eames a little slow on the uptake.

"I think," he says, once he's able to control his jaw again, "that you're overly ambitious." Which is hardly news to Arthur, but it's the best Eames can do just now.

"Fuck you," mutters Arthur. And he's got hair in his eyes and a look on his face that would be very close to a pout on anyone less formidable than Arthur happens to be, and then he sighs and shifts a little more against Eames's side and grumbles, "'s too hard doing it by yourself; the angle's all weird."

It takes Eames an age to realize he's heard that right, but once he figures it out all he can do is stare and stare some more.

"Wait just a minute, what do you mean _when you do it by yourself_?"

Arthur frowns at him like Eames is the saddest specimen of a person he's ever had the misfortune of encountering. "Just..." he waves a hand and gives Eames an absent little pat on the shoulder, "just _think_ about it."

"Oh, I am," says Eames. "I really am. Backwards, forwards, and upside down."

"I wouldn't ask for something I didn't know I could take," Arthur tells him, again with the not-quite-pout that's getting more and more difficult to qualify as not-quite. Eames has a tricky time concentrating on that when he's faced with a sudden lapful of Arthur. "I wouldn't," breathes Arthur, his mouth wet and delicate over the pulse in Eames's neck, and Eames can't _not_ go cross-eyed, just a bit. "You don't believe that?"

"I know you wouldn't. But you do screw up sometimes, darling, and when you do, you screw up _big_. Not that it isn't very dramatic going down with you in a hail of bullets time and time again, but--"

"Fucking me with your fist," Arthur says witheringly, "is not the same as putting me out of my misery with a grenade launcher. And if you thought I derived any kind of enjoyment from that, you--"

"Stop," Eames interjects. "As long as you don't mention work for the rest of the night, I'll do whatever you want."

It's terrible just how sweet and innocent Arthur can look when he genuinely smiles. So terrible it makes Eames want to rip the neatly buttoned dress shirt right off him. "I knew you'd take care of me."

\---

“Let’s get one thing out of the way. You’re almost certainly never going to be relaxed enough for this to happen.”

“Bite me,” sighs Arthur, sprawled on top of the covers, enough of his throat bared to make it a very tempting opportunity.

Eames resolutely stays on track. “Case in point: you knew this was supposed to be a boring night in and you still showed up in a tie.”

“But you _like_ my ties.” Arthur looks wounded. “You said once they make me look like a little cocksucking prat, but I knew you meant it as a compliment. And I let you take it off me, didn’t I?”

Which is true. With his teeth, even, since Eames swore he could and Arthur was almost tittering as he breathed out a fine plume of smoke and agreed to let him prove it.

“I don’t even know where it is now,” Arthur continues. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, scowling. “Wait. Do you _want_ me to stop begging you to fuck me and start trying to find my tie? Eames, that’s the stupidest thing ever.” His shirt is half untucked and Eames, in lieu of answering, finishes pulling it free, slipping buttons apart from the bottom up until he’s bared a flash of Arthur’s pale stomach.

He pauses, letting his fingers drift across it, studying the way Arthur stretches and sighs in response. "You really do want this, don't you?"

Arthur helpfully plucks open a few more buttons and then looks at him, a quick flit of dark eyelashes, before winding his arms around Eames and drawing him down. “I won’t let you do anything that hurts me.” He twists until he’s on top, tangling their limbs together, and Eames can feel the heat of him, everywhere. “And,” Arthur kisses him, drawing his nails down Eames’s nape, “and I know you’d be so careful, know you’d stop the second I said. I _know_ that and I just really, really like your hands, so I don’t understand why it’s a big deal.”

Eames can’t argue, not with Arthur hard against him, licking up his throat and easing one graceful hand down the front of Eames’s pants. “You’ve done it before, too, haven’t you?” Arthur whispers. “You’ve done everything.”

Eames’s checkered history with dreamsharing isn’t something they talk about directly, although it does come up obliquely from time to time. “Well, yes,” admits Eames, and Arthur’s face is ducked down, nudging Eames’s shirt up his body so he can lap a cruel little circle in the cradle of his hipbone. Eames slips his fingers through Arthur’s hair, guiding him back up

“Yes,” Eames says again, and he can see every last reaction that Arthur tries to keep from crossing his face this time, “but not with you.”

It’s a lethal combination, Arthur plus mussed hair plus recreational drug use plus the faintest of furrows that appears between his eyes. “Show me,” he says, and his hand is hot and smooth around Eames’s cock and his shirt slides off his shoulders and Eames has a feeling that Arthur knows very, very well just how lethal he can be, but he can’t be arsed to call him out for it either.

\---

Arthur goes twisting out of the rest of his clothes, heedless of where they end up, and then he’s ushering Eames’s shirt over his head, moving to discard his trousers as well when Eames goes about it too slowly for his liking. Eames gives up after having his hands swatted aside a couple times and lets him have at it. If he ends up with Arthur sprawling on top of him, languid rolls of his hips bringing their cocks together as he’s giving pleased little hums against Eames’s lips, that’s all the better.

Eames’s hand finds the dip of Arthur’s lower back and rests there, thumbing at the crease of his arse, and it unnerves him that his palm feels disproportionately enormous when he draws it up along Arthur’s narrow waist. He brings it up higher, into his hair, feeling Arthur’s spine bow and his cock throb.

“If you decide you absolutely don’t want to continue,” Eames tells him, “I want you to scream Cobb’s name as loud as you can.”

Arthur’s mouth is wet around one of Eames’s nipples, and he nips at it before looking up, eyes distant. “Why?”

“Because that’s the most unsexy thing I can think of.”

“Cobb is not a _thing_ ,” Arthur says staunchly.

"Your loyalty,” remarks Eames, “is both impressive and ill-timed. And can I just remind you that usually when you smoke this much, you end up ordering a mountain of takeout and falling asleep? How can you be sure you’re not going to change your mind halfway through and decide that seems like the best plan after all?”

”Look, I’m not going to get much more relaxed than I am now,” Arthur says, and it’s probably true. “But maybe I’m not the one we should be worrying about.” He quirks a brow and goes crawling up the bed to get the lube, giving Eames a wonderful view of his arse in the process, and of course Eames can’t say no to that. He can’t even be one hundred percent sure Arthur’s doing it on purpose.

It’s impossible to focus on the negative possibilities of anything with Arthur before him, hard and ready, knees to the mattress. He sets the bottle aside, giving an almost kittenish tilt of his head as if to make sure he’s got the angle right, then he goes licking up Eames’s cock and _swallows_. Effortlessly, no preamble needed.

If Eames wasn’t already sold on the idea of trusting Arthur on this one, he’d almost certainly be getting to that point now. “ _Fuck_ , Arthur, that—”

“Want me to keep going?” Arthur peers up at him, licking daintily. His ability to be polite during very impolite acts is infuriating. “You can come in my mouth, on my face, whatever you want.”

Eames guides him up again. “You’re a dirty, underhanded bastard and it’s very winning, but hold off, yeah?”

He urges one of Arthur’s legs over his hip, pressing behind his balls with one finger, slickened. Arthur hisses when it penetrates him, his body contracting heatedly around it. Eames can hardly imagine doing the same with his entire hand.

“If it’s too much, I don’t…” he begins, but Arthur is giving him a long-suffering eyeroll and that’s just not something that should _ever_ happen when any part of Eames is inside him. Eames discards the rest of that sentence, instead bearing down and kissing him hard. It’s a long, filthy kiss, and he’s shameless about lapping the taste of himself from Arthur’s mouth. “When was the last time you tried it?” he murmurs, working that finger in fully.

Arthur gasps, the hand he’s bracing himself on clawing into the blankets. “When?” Eames prompts.

“While you were doing that thing for Demaris,” Arthur blurts out all at once. “Planting daisies or co-hosting a lecture series on the plebian nature of producing counterfeit currency or something, I don’t remember.”

“And what did you do?”

“You weren’t around and it was late and I needed more…” His words dissolve and he writhes down on Eames’s fingers, two now, arching until the spit-wet length of Eames’s cock rubs against his stomach. “Fucked myself with it, the big one, and then it was easier to finger myself. I really almost had it, but I was getting a cramp in my arm so I just made myself come with the dildo again and went to sleep.”

“So,” Eames muses, “you passed out naked and fucked open and aching for me, with a sex toy under your pillow.” He pulls his hand back, feels Arthur clench and try to draw him in again. “How interesting.”

“Not under the pillow,” corrects Arthur, muffled because he’s mouthing Eames’s collarbone now. “I kept it in me.”

Eames’s hand tightens on his shoulder.

“It wasn’t the same as you and it’s not something I recommend making a habit of, but it still felt too good to give up,” Arthur continues. “And I,” he sucks at Eames’s earlobe, “I’m not a size queen, I mean; I’m not _completely_ objectifying you, I just like it.”

“Oh,” says Eames, a little dazed, “objectify away.”

Arthur graces him with another of those disconcertingly angelic smiles. “I’m gonna turn over now,” he says brightly. “And you feel really good, so please don’t stop.”

He’s silent as Eames works two fingers into him from behind, slick and slow, then a third. They’ve done this countless times before, but Eames is on edge, waiting, and when Arthur _does_ finally utter a tiny whimper it’s enough to make him jump.

“What’s wrong, love?”

“Talk to me. You’re never this quiet; don’t be so serious. Or lemme—just give me your other hand.”

He does, and Arthur grips it fiercely, threading their fingers together. “I’d suck your cock right now if I could,” Arthur breathes, and his voice is roughened and half-stifled when he slicks his mouth along the back of Eames’s hand, wetness and warmth and the sharpness of teeth. “I’d make it last a long time, till you were begging me to finish, but then I’d stop and you could fuck me just like this. I wouldn’t let myself come until you did.” Eames is squeezing his hand too hard for it to be pleasant, but he can’t help it. He crooks his fingers, just barely, inside Arthur and soothes a kiss against his back when it makes him shiver.

“And then,” Arthur strains to look over his shoulder, eyes darkened, “I’d let you make me come, any way you wanted, as many times as you could.”

More than anything, Eames wishes there was a mirror in front of them so he could see Arthur’s face properly. He settles the next best thing and leans over him, grips his chin, and takes his mouth for as long as he possibly can, tasting every part of it until Arthur is panting and the awkwardness of the position causes them to break away from each other.

“Next time,” Eames says, with certainty, and lets him go.

He catches his breath, pressing another finger to Arthur’s hole, not entering yet. Arthur twists around again, stretching like he’s trying to _see_ Eames’s fingers slipping into him like this. “Is that four? That’s four, isn’t it? Eames,” and God, no one’s ever said his name the way Arthur does when he’s like this, “please, keep going.”

“I’m not stopping,” Eames promises, and Arthur’s head lags forward, nape bared.

“Do it, just… _please_. Like this, fuck, _yes_.”

Like this. On his knees, on his hands, shuddering, swearing, so wet, and Eames slips all four fingers into him until Arthur’s demanding more _again_ , threatening to just try and take care of things himself if Eames won’t.

He’s beautiful in his impatience, but Eames knows a bluff when he hears one. “Oh, but you won’t, will you?” He uses his other hand to thumb Arthur open wider still, then flicks the very tip of his tongue to the rim of his hole. “The angle’s off, isn’t it?” He does it again, breathing out warmly against him; Arthur squirms, whines. “Isn’t it, darling? And your fingers don’t feel the same, do they?”

Arthur shakes and swears and the words pour out of him like a geyser. “No…not enough, yours are better, always so good, always know how to…fuckplease, Eames, I want it, so fucking _move_.”

He empties the bottle. All over his hand and dripping between his fingers and onto the sheets and Arthur’s thighs: a mess, but a necessary one. Taking no chances. “Bear down.”

And he’s pushing and Arthur is trembling, arse still shoved into the air and head still hidden in the pillow, but he’s moaning long and shaky and Eames’s hand slips in and in and _in_ until Arthur’s keening as the wide ridge of his knuckles disappears inside him. And he’s done it. All of it, all of _him_.

Synapses are firing like flashbulbs all over Eames’s brain and he doesn’t trust himself to breathe, let alone _speak_ even though he needs to, and Arthur is breathing so hard, back shaking like he’s struggling not to move. He’s strong, Eames knows this very well, and more than capable of taking care of himself, but everything about his body seems as fragile as the moment they’re both tangled in. “I…God…the way you feel right now, I can’t…”

He wants to say so many things, like how much he adores the way Arthur spreads right open for it, trying his best to take Eames in even though he’s so unbelievably tight it _has_ to hurt, more than a little. Eames wants to say that he would do anything, anything at all, for it to _not_.

Arthur is twisting around, trying to see. His voice is strained, raspy. “Eames, talk to me.”

And Eames can’t, can only hold him and kiss him like he’s made of gold. Even if he could talk, he doesn’t know what could truly do this justice, since Arthur doesn’t let anyone in easily, mentally or physically or any way at all and now he’s letting…and Eames is…it’s too much and he can’t. He just can’t.

“ _Can’t_.” Head bowed, forehead damp and warm against Arthur’s bony shoulder, fist moving in small pushing movements and his other hand wrapped around his cock, and he’s vaguely aware that Arthur’s telling him it’s okay, everything’s okay, which is ludicrous since Eames should probably be telling _him_ these things. It’s amazing, it’s fucking _surreal_ , that he can take Eames into him like this and Eames can only pet him and kiss his back and hope that every last unspoken word sinks into Arthur’s skin and _stays_.

When he comes, spattering his own hand and the back of one trembling thigh, it seems to happen out of nowhere. He thinks he says something, babbling out strings of idiocy now that he’s too far gone to realize it, but Arthur is letting out something that’s almost an actual _sob_. It nearly gives Eames a heart attack when, in front of him, under him, around him, Arthur’s body undulates as if he’s in pain.

The awe in his voice indicates otherwise. “ _Fuck_ , Eames, did you just—?”

“Yeah.” Reaching, feeling under him to touch his tight-clenched stomach and the wetness of his cock— _fuck_ , and just the fact that he’s still hard, even now—and pleading Arthur to do the talking for him. “Say what you need, darling, anything, just tell me how to do this for you.”

Arthur is normally utilitarian with his words, but sex and drugs both tend to have interesting effects on his vocabulary. “Need you to make me fucking _come_ ,” he growls, and Eames can’t get enough of him like this, shuddering with pleasure and too far off the ground to hold back. “Love how you touch me, how you fuck me. Just…with your hand, move a little and don’t stop touching me.” And he tries to look over his shoulder again, but Eames presses into him ever so slightly and Arthur’s head falls forward like he simply doesn’t have the strength left in him anymore. “ _Yeah_. Do that, doitagain. I love your hands, you have no fucking idea, and I wouldn’t ever do this with anyone but you, you know that, right? Because you really, really need to know that.”

And even then, the words keep coming and Eames is still there, still drinking in every last one.

Being trusted, this much, by someone he isn’t conning is such a heady thing. This is what goes through his mind when Arthur’s hand closes over his own and squeezes, tight and merciless.

Arthur comes without a sound.

The broken little groan he gives when Eames pulls free of him, however, is heartbreaking, even though he moves as gently as he can.

“Nearly done, that’s it…Christ, you’re so beautiful, so good like this, come here to me.”

Eames can’t have him in his arms fast enough. Arthur’s lashes are damp and his mouth is slack, but he lets Eames hold him and kiss him even though he’d probably like nothing better than to melt into the bed and sleep for a year.

Then Arthur mumbles, “I think I want your hands on me all the time,” and sounds so deadly serious about it Eames can’t do anything but laugh into his hair.

They both need to clean up, desperately, but neither of them moves.

“You know,” Eames says, “maybe we should’ve tried this in a dream first, in case anything went wrong.”

Arthur, sticky and sprawled and blissfully spent, shakes his head. “I wanted it to be real.”

Eames has to take a minute to wonder if Arthur is entirely real himself. It’s a thought that’s crossed his mind every now and then, but not one he’s ever been able to answer to his satisfaction. “Telling you to dream a little bigger was some of the best advice I’ve ever given.”

Arthur bites halfheartedly at his shoulder. “I think I love you, too, by the way. Now stop trying to take credit for my depravity.”


End file.
